


Take Your Time

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Castiel in the Bunker, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: With Sam away helping Eileen on a hunt, Cas is looking forward to some quality time alone with his human. Unfortunately, getting Dean to relax is a little more difficult than you'd think...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackTrades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTrades/gifts).



> Written for [JackTrades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTrades/pseuds/JackTrades) for the 2016 [Dean/Cas Secret Santa](http://deancas_xmas.livejournal.com). Prompt: _Dean and Castiel spend a lazy day indoors._
> 
> This is AU in that it's an established relationship fic, but otherwise takes place sometime between 12x03 and 12x07.
> 
> Many thanks to [majestic_duck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestic_duck/pseuds/majestic_duck) for the beta!

“C’mon, man. You sure you can handle it?”

“It’s a milk run, Dean. We’re gonna be fine.”

“Yeah, but I can be ready to roll in five minutes. What? Why the hell not?”

Castiel sighed at the bickering voices coming from down the corridor and headed for the map room. Eileen had called an hour ago. Called Sam, specifically, asking him for backup on a job she was working a couple hours away. From the few times he’d watched them interact via Sam's laptop screen, Castiel was fairly certain the invitation had been solo for a reason, but that hadn’t prevented Dean from trying to muscle in on the hunt.

Right now, Dean was standing beside the map table while Sam finished packing his duffel, arms crossed over his chest in the posture that meant he was just waiting for Sam to see sense and give in. He didn’t seem to register that Castiel had entered the room, turning and trailing after Sam when he hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and made for the garage. 

“Look, Dean, I’m sure she would’ve said if it was more than a two-man job.”

Dean shrugged. “Many hands, light work. All that crap.”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked on the verge of saying something they would all regret, so Castiel decided it was time to step in. He caught Dean by the arm and looked him in the eyes.

“Asking for help is what humans do when they wish for company but think it would be inappropriate to say so, isn’t it?” 

Dean just looked at him, so Castiel went on:

“Like the time you insisted it was imperative that I help you decide which was the best _Die Hard_ movie, when in fact you wanted—”

Dean put up his hands. “ _O_ kay, nobody needs to hear the rest of that.” Sam laughed, and Dean turned back to him—but this time, he was grinning. “But hey, Sammy, if it’s a booty call, why didn’t you just say so?”

“It isn’t a—” 

Dean punched him in the arm before he could continue. “Didn’t mean to cockblock you, man. Go on, get outta here.”

Sam made a half-hearted attempt at further protest—though it was somewhat weakened by the fact that he’d turned beet red—and hurried toward the garage before Dean could change his mind.

Dean turned back to Castiel, still grinning. “So, Sammy’s got himself a girlfriend, huh? Who knew?” He shrugged. “Let’s go see what’s on TV.” He started back up the corridor, only glancing back once in the direction Sam had gone. 

Castiel let out a breath and allowed himself to smile. It had been some time since he and Dean had had the bunker to themselves. He intended to make the most of it.

 

\----

 

Half an hour later, however, Dean was on edge again. He shifted constantly where he sat on the couch, looking at his cell phone every few minutes, and finally Castiel was able to stand it no longer. Instead of reaching for the remote control, he waved his hand in the direction of the TV, pausing it mid-cookery-show with a push of his grace. Dean blinked and looked at him.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “What’s bothering you?”

Dean shook his head. “Shoulda gone with him. Might be a booty call, but it’s a hunt, too.” He glanced at the time display on his cell. “If I left now—”

“Sam would become annoyed with you and there would be an argument.” 

“Yeah, well, he bitches at me 24/7 anyway.”

It was time, Castiel decided, for a distraction. Finding another job might be the most effective thing—but that would simply give Dean something else to worry about. They had the bunker to themselves for once, and it would be a shame not to take advantage of the situation.

Food was usually effective, and it was certainly more pleasurable than hunting. For a moment, Castiel missed his wings. Once upon a time, he could have gone out for gumbo from New Orleans, pizza from Tuscany, dim sum from Hong Kong, and been back in the blink of an eye. Now, even an acceptable burger would necessitate a half-hour’s drive, and he dared not suggest it for fear that Dean would have talked himself into following Sam by the time he returned. 

The refrigerator was still fairly well-stocked, however, so he inclined his head in the direction of the kitchen and suggested, “Maybe we should make lunch?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe.” 

He still looked unconvinced, so Castiel added, “There was fruit in the kitchen. We could make pie.”

For reasons he didn’t fully understand, Dean looked pained for a moment before he said, “Yeah, I guess.”

“That way Sam can have some when he returns.” Castiel hesitated then, uncertain that he had said the right thing, but it seemed to work, because Dean wavered a moment longer, then smiled and got to his feet.

“Damn right. Hey, he’s only got himself to blame if he misses out on my baking mastery, right? C’mon.”

Castiel got to his feet and followed him to the kitchen, where Dean was already pulling ingredients and measuring cups down from the cupboards. He turned to Castiel as he entered, one finger raised in admonishment. 

“Now Cas, I know you’re gonna try and help, but you gotta do exactly what the recipe says, okay?” He paused, frowned, and amended. “Scratch that. You gotta do exactly what _I_ say. Now measure out a cup of sugar and—where’d I put the apples?”

 

\----

 

A little over an hour later they were both seated at the kitchen table, finishing up omelets that Dean had somehow alchemized out of the random assortment of foodstuffs in the refrigerator while the apple pie turned golden-brown in the oven. Dean smirked as he reached across the table to wipe a smudge of something—possibly pie filling—off Castiel’s cheek with his thumb.

“Man.” Dean shook his head. “How the hell is it you can handle an angel blade just fine, but a wooden spoon’s just too much?” His tone was fond, however, and Castiel could not find it in him to object to the teasing.

“You have flour in your hair,” he pointed out, instead, returning Dean’s smile.

“Yeah, and you got… something on your tie. What even is that? Ketchup?”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t recall using any.”

Dean shrugged and got to his feet. “C’mon. Cleanup time.”

They clear up the dishes, and Dean was still smiling by the time they got started boxing up the leftovers. Only then he stopped, frowning into the fridge. Castiel touched him between his shoulder blades, peering in beside him, but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

Dean shook himself out it. “Sam left his crappy-ass vegetable juice,” he said, making a face. “I dunno how the hell a grown man can drink that stuff.” He made an exaggerated noise of disgust. His eyes were wandering, though, and a moment later, Castiel turned around and found him scrolling through the inbox on his phone.

“Dean.”

Dean didn’t look up, just frowned at his screen. “I figured one of ‘em would’ve texted by now.”

“Dean,” Castiel repeated, a little more firmly this time. At least that got Dean to glance up from the cell phone. “Sam may not even have arrived at Eileen’s location yet. There’s probably nothing to report.”

“I guess,” Dean said, but his expression was still doubtful. Clearly, it was time for another distraction.

Castiel could have cleaned them both up with a snap of his fingers, of course, and he was halfway to doing so when it occurred to him that to do so would be to miss an opportunity. Instead, he gently pried the cell from Dean’s hand and set it down on the freshly-wiped countertop. “We should clean up,” he pointed out, and nodded his head in the direction of the corridor. “Perhaps we could take a shower.”

That was one of Dean’s favorite activities, both together and alone. At first Castiel had found it hard to understand why he would waste the time, but the blissful look in Dean’s eyes when he found a motel with perfect water pressure, the way he would groan with relief at the hot water on his shoulders after a hunt, had told him that maybe he was missing something. The first time Dean had smirked and told him, _You’ll never find out if you don’t try_ and dragged him underneath the spray, he’d been grateful he wasn’t missing it any longer.

Apparently the suggestion was still a reliable one, because it drew Dean’s attention from the phone. He caught Castiel’s eye and grinned. “Sure you don’t just wanna do your hand-wavy magic? Pretty sure I remember you saying taking showers were an _inexplicable waste of time_.”

Castiel eyed him sternly. “As you said, experiencing them first-hand gave me a new appreciation.”

“Nothing like a convert, huh?” Dean said, raising an eyebrow, but he allowed himself to be taken by the arm and led toward the bathroom. He snagged his cell and pushed it into the pocket of his jeans on the way out; but Castiel decided not to argue about it. They would both be better served by more pleasurable distractions.

He turned on the water with a wave of his hand as they entered the bathroom, and busied himself by pressing Dean against the tiled wall and kissing him thoroughly as they waited for it to warm up. The way that Dean melted into the kiss, one hand sneaking around to palm Castiel’s buttock, told him it had been a good idea. He cupped the side of Dean’s face, stubble rough against his palm, and slid his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean opened up to him eagerly, making a low, pleased sound in his throat.

They kissed a moment longer, then Castiel pulled away. Dean looked back at him with an expression perilously close to a pout. “Tease.”

Castiel put his head on one side. “Traditionally these situations go better without clothing.”

Dean regarded him a second longer, then gave him a wink. “Cas, you want a striptease, you only gotta ask.”

It hadn’t been his intention; but he had to admit the idea was not without its appeal. He met Dean’s eyes with a small smile. “Is that an offer?”

Dean shrugged out of his button-down and turned to hang it up behind him, giving a twist of his hips that couldn’t help but draw the eye to his ass. He threw a glance at Castiel over his shoulder. “That answer your question?”

He undressed slowly, teasing with a glimpse of skin above his waistband, with bending over at an exaggerated angle to unlace his boots. Dean was laughing, but Castiel watched, allowing human heat to rise up slowly in him, heartbeat quickening, erection straining against the front of his trousers. There was steam in the air now and, the sound of running water loud in his ears. Under other circumstances, he would have reached out instinctively with his grace, just to check the rest of the bunker—but right now, he felt no need. Dean was an entrancing picture, half-naked against the white tiles, his laugh creasing up the corners of his eyes, a flush of pink making its way up his chest, like the sun rising beneath his freckles.

Dean caught his eye, then, and the moment broke. The color made its way up Dean’s neck, staining his cheeks, and he ducked his head self-consciously. “Okay,” he said, his voice too gruff for the gentle moment, “this is dumb.”

Castiel didn’t answer him, only pressed in close and fitted his mouth to Dean’s again. He let his hands roam Dean’s skin—the muscles of his back, the notches of his spine—and pressed their hips together, letting Dean feel the hard bulge of his cock against his thigh. 

“This,” he said, against the shell of Dean’s ear, when he pulled away, “is not dumb.” He paused. “But it is unequal,” he allowed, and tugged at the knot of his tie.

Somehow, that was enough to bring back Dean’s smile. “Yeah, we’re gonna be here all day if I let you take care of that,” he said, and batted Castiel’s hands away. He paused a moment, then used the tie to tug Castiel into another slow kiss. Castiel’s eyes slid closed and he sank into it, into the softness of Dean’s mouth beneath his own, the steady movement of their bodies against one another. When he opened his eyes again, the tie was gone from around his neck and Dean was working on the buttons of his shirt. The air was warm with steam now, and it felt good to bare his skin.

Still too many layers of clothing between them, though. He reached for Dean’s waistband and worked open the button of his jeans, a more practised movement than taking care of his own clothing. Dean seemed to get the hint that this was enough teasing and pushed Castiel’s shirt off of his shoulders. Soon enough they were both naked and standing pressed together under the spray, kissing while the water ran in rivulets down their faces. Droplets clung to the ends of Dean’s long lashes, hung there for a moment like tears, but he was laughing as Castiel pressed him back against the wall, and so Castiel laughed, too.

He was rock-hard, a slow throb of want in his veins, and he could feel Dean’s erection against his thigh, the quickening of Dean’s breath and the jackrabbiting of his heart. But Castiel would take his time. This was what he’d been hoping for today, after all. Time to relax, to breathe and do nothing; to enjoy each other without locking themselves away in a bedroom for fear of interruption; to be lazy and easy, instead of falling into bed exhausted after a hunt and curling himself around Dean while he slept away the aches and disappointments of the latest battle.

Castiel pulled back, just an inch or so, and said, “We should clean up. That was the initial idea.”

Dean ignored him for a moment, chasing the warmth of his mouth and wrapping both arms around his waist to hold him there. Castiel allowed it—but then Dean broke the kiss and agreed, “Guess you’re right. I call dibs on first backrub.”

That, Castiel was happy to concede. He reached for the shower gel, and pushed at Dean’s shoulder. Dean turned obediently, stilling as Castiel’s hands found his skin. He worked the soap into a lather, his fingertips digging into the muscles of Dean’s back—experimentally, at first, and then firmer when Dean made a satisfied noise low in his chest and breathed out, “Damn, you’re good at this.”

Castiel smiled to himself. “I believe I still require a little more practice.”

“Like I’m gonna let you stop.”

He continued his ministrations, pouring a blob of shampoo into his palm to wash the flour out of Dean’s hair, rubbing fingertip-circles on his scalp. Dean’s head tipped back into his touch, and Castiel saw that his eyes were closed, his face soft with bliss. He thought that if Dean were capable of it, he might have purred.

Very gently, he ceased his movements and tugged Dean back under the water to rinse the soap out of his hair. Dean let him, turned in his arms when he was done and pressed his mouth to Castiel’s jaw, his neck, the spot just behind his ear that made pleasure spark white-hot as grace through his human body.

Castiel swallowed hard. “I suggest we take this someplace more comfortable.”

He felt Dean’s smile against his skin. “Thought you’d never ask.” There was a pause, then, and Dean’s hand found his cock, fingertips tracing teasingly up the shaft. Castiel took in a sharp breath and had to summon all his self-control to keep still. “I mean,” Dean went on, “I kinda wanna blow you right here in the shower, but I ain’t twenty anymore and my knees know it.”

Castiel regarded him very seriously. “Then let’s go.” 

“Damn right.” Dean walked out of the shower ahead of him, incidentally giving Castiel a very pleasant view of his rear. He reached for a towel, hung up on the same peg as his jeans, and tugged it down to wrap around his waist.

At least, Castiel assumed that was what Dean had intended to do—but he never got there, because his jeans came off the peg at the same time, and his cell phone slid out of the back pocket to skitter away across the tiles.

“Aw, crap.” All of a sudden, the tease was gone from Dean’s voice, the smile from his face. He dropped the towel and crouched to pick up the cell, swiping his thumb over the cracked screen.

Castiel moved up behind him to look at it over his shoulder. He made out the word _Sam_ in the center of the broken screen, and the missed call light was flashing, but there was no response when Dean touched the screen—just a brief distortion of the image, a flicker of light, and then nothing. Dean scowled and jabbed at the cell with a fingertip, but the screen remained stubbornly blank.

“ _Fuck_.” Dean scrubbed a hand down his face.

Gently, without intent, Castiel touched his shoulder. The moment and the mood had passed: that much was abundantly clear, and his arousal faded at the naked worry on Dean’s face. “I’m sure Sam is fine,” he said.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, you wanna put a fifty on that?”

“If he was truly in difficulty, he would have called me, too,” Castiel pointed out. “Or prayed.”

“Sure, if he _could_. What if some supernatural asshole took his cell? Knocked him out?” Dean scowled. “Happens more often than you’d think.”

Castiel retrieved the towel from where Dean had dropped it on the floor. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll call him back.”

Dean did as he was bid, and Castiel dried and dressed himself with a wave of his hand. After all, there was no use drawing it out this time. He’d left his trenchcoat in the library, and he retrieved his cell from the pocket, bringing up Sam’s number and putting on speakerphone as he returned to Dean’s side.

The phone rang. And rang. Sam did not pick up. 

The chances were that he’d simply called Dean when he stopped for gas, then got back on the road. The chances that Dean would accept this without unnecessary worry were, Castiel knew, low.

Dean finished dressing himself, reaching again for his broken cell and worrying uselessly at the cracked screen with his thumb. It didn’t respond, and Dean’s frown deepened as he tried again. If Castiel didn’t stop him, he would spend the rest of the day doing this—or decide there was no possible course of action but to follow Sam on his hunt.

“Perhaps it’s a good sign,” Castiel offered. “That he didn’t pick up.”

Dean snorted. “How do you figure?”

“If somebody had taken him, they would have switched off the cell. Or destroyed it so we couldn’t track its location. The fact that it’s ringing suggests Sam is simply busy.” At least, that was what any competent monster would have done; though Castiel was well aware that those were relatively rare. In general, monsters betrayed their humanity in their stupid mistakes, just as Castiel so often did himself.

Dean gave a short nod. “You’re probably right,” he admitted, though he poked again at the unresponsive screen.

Castiel curled a hand around his wrist. “Why don’t we watch a movie?” he suggested. Dean looked doubtful, so he pressed on: “I’ll keep my cell phone to hand. That way we can be ready to answer if Sam calls back.” He sighed. “It was just one missed call, Dean. It doesn’t mean disaster.”

After a moment, Dean nodded. He slid the broken cell back into his pocket and clasped Castiel’s hand. “You’re gonna put me on the line the second he calls.”

Castiel squeezed his hand, in what he hoped signalled reassurance. “Of course.”

 

\----

 

The Star Wars marathon seemed like a good idea. For Dean, the movies were a well-known comfort, enough explosions and space battles to provide distraction, but the welcome knowledge that all would be well in the end. 

It worked—at least, until they were mid-way through _The Empire Strikes Back_ , and Luke started having visions of his friends and his sister being tortured.

On the screen, Luke collapsed into a heap on the floor of the Dagobah forest, then determined recklessly to go running to her aid. At Castiel’s side, Dean shifted restlessly. He’d begun to lean into Castiel as the movies played, the tension leaking slowly from his frame, but now he sat up and reached once more for the cell he’d borrowed from Castiel. The screen lit up as he swiped his thumb across it for the dozenth, or possibly the hundredth, time, but there was still no message from Sam.

With a sigh, Castiel reached across and plucked the phone from his hands, switching off the TV with a wave of grace that would ordinarily have had Dean complaining about his _wasting mojo on everyday crap._ He set down the cell phone and turned Dean’s face toward his own, his touch gentle but insistent. “What do you think will happen because you’re not there?” he asked, softly.

“Sammy gets eaten by monsters. Sammy and Eileen both get eaten by monsters.” Dean counted them off on his fingers. “Sammy and Eileen discover some asshat’s plotting another apocalypse, but before they can tell anybody about it, they get eaten by—”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel reached up and took his face between both hands. “I don’t mean to minimize your fears. Hunting _is_ dangerous. But Sam is very capable. From what I know of her, so is Eileen. They already know what they are up against. This is, as Sam called it, a milk run.”

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “No such thing in this job.”

“You mean to say you wouldn’t take the hunt on yourself, were Sam and I not present to help you?”

“No.” Dean scowled. “You guys weren’t around, of course I’d still go. But we _are_ around. We’re sitting right here on our asses, letting Sam go running off alone.”

“He isn’t alone,” Castiel pointed out, but Dean’s frown only deepened. It occurred to Castiel, then, that perhaps he had finally hit on the real problem. “Dean,” he tried, again, softer. “What is this really about?”

“It’s about how nobody around here but me has any goddam common sense.”

Castiel just looked at him. Dean continued to scowl—but then his shoulders sagged, and he sighed and pressed his fingertips to his forehead, rubbing his temples as though his head was aching. Castiel waited.

“I dunno, man,” Dean allowed, after a moment. “It’s just since—” He broke off. “Look, I know when not to be the third wheel, you know? I wasn’t gonna get in the way. Dunno why Sammy was so fucking stuck on going without me.”

“You’re afraid that he’ll leave you like your mother did,” Castiel realized.

Dean gave a snort. “Like mom did. Like you did when you went chasing Lucifer with Crowley and not with us.” He shook his head. “Looks like everybody’s taking off these days.”

Castiel felt a faint pang somewhere beneath his ribcage. After a moment, he recognized it as guilt. 

He was a part of this, after all—and had been well before he teamed up with Crowley. He’d been running away, too, when he said yes to Lucifer. Not running from Dean, never from Dean—but in his time on Earth, he’d learned that it could be difficult to make that distinction from the outside. How was Dean to know that Castiel was running only from his own inadequacies? How was he not to feel abandoned, when Castiel had refused all Dean’s efforts to call him home?

He breathed in deeply, then looked Dean in the eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said—more firmly than Dean had expected, apparently, because his eyes widened in surprise. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned into Dean’s space, cupping his cheek once more, and kissed him softly on the lips. It was a gentle brush, chaste, but Dean leaned into it instinctively. “I’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Castiel decided, without pulling away, his lips moving against Dean’s mouth.

Dean broke away, just a couple of inches. “Going about what the wrong way?” There was an undercurrent of nervousness in it, and Castiel realized Dean was afraid he was talking about them. Dean might always be afraid of that. So, for that matter, might Castiel.

He closed the distance between them again, mouthing at Dean’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, until he felt Dean exhale and give in to it. This, surely, was the best reassurance he could offer. Humans often said one thing and meant another; bodies were more honest than words.

Still, after a moment, he pulled away and offered, “I’ve been trying to distract you.”

Dean blinked at him. “Yeah, kinda got that.”

“I’ve been trying to keep you from worrying about what might happen.” Castiel brushed his thumb down Dean’s cheek, warm and scratchy with stubble. “I should have been trying to make you think about what _is_ happening. This moment. Now.”

Dean looked into his eyes for a moment, his expression wide open and uncertain, the way it always got when Castiel spoke too openly about their relationship, too sincerely about his feelings for Dean. It lasted only a flash, however. Then Dean summoned up a grin and asked, “You get that line from some chick flick? Knew I never shoulda given you the Netflix password.”

“Dean. Stop talking.” To emphasize his point, he pulled Dean into another kiss. This time, they both came away breathless.

“Okay,” Dean got out. “Point taken. You ain’t going anywhere.”

“Nor is Sam,” Castiel promised him. “Having Eileen in his life doesn’t mean he’s walking away from you any more than having me in your life means that you’re leaving him.” Dean didn’t go so far as to agree with that one, but his expression was less doubtful than it might have been, and so Castiel seized the opportunity and pressed home his advantage. “But I would rather not be thinking about Sam right now,” he pointed out, and leaned in, nuzzling against Dean’s neck and wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist to keep him close. He breathed gently against the skin, brushing his lips there before pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of his neck.

That made Dean shiver, and Castiel felt Dean’s breath catch in his chest through the layers of their clothing. “Yeah,” he said, after a moment, his voice a little strained. “Got it. No Sam.” Dean dipped his head, then, finding Castiel’s mouth with his own, and Castiel felt fingertips at his waistband, untucking his shirt and sneaking up beneath it to stroke at the skin there. The suddenness of the contact tickled a little, and he made a low noise of surprise against Dean’s lips.

He felt Dean’s laugh more than he heard it. “Man, I’m never gonna get used to you being ticklish.”

Dean was keeping things light deliberately; he understood that much. Sometimes the intensity of this thing between them was too much for Dean, would make him pull away or withdraw into himself for long moments, until he was ready to allow himself to be loved. But this was a part of it, too. That they could be easy together, tease one another—it was a good thing. 

He smiled and, without warning, pulled Dean around into his lap, sliding palms up under his shirt, stroking at his sides, the planes of muscle in his back. That got a gasp from Dean, and Castiel felt a warm spark of satisfaction at the sound. He didn’t get time to comment on it, though, because Dean was leaning down to fit their mouths together again, unfastening the buttons of Castiel’s shirt with determination. Briefly, Castiel found time to be grateful he hadn’t replaced his tie after their near-miss in the shower. Not that he’d objected to being teased, then—but now, he didn’t wish to wait.

Dean let Castiel work his button-down off his shoulders, broke the kiss and pulled his t-shirt off over his head. Castiel shed his own shirt, and then they were pressed chest-to-chest, Dean’s skin warm against his own, Dean’s arms around him as though he were a lifebuoy.

Castiel had no objections. He would let Dean anchor him and hold him here forever, if that was what he needed.

Dean shifted further into his lap, straddling his hips, and Castiel felt the first stirrings of his hard-on through his jeans. He gave an experimental roll of his hips, pressing his lips to the hollow of Dean’s throat, and got a whisper of, “Fuck, Cas,” in return.

Some other time, he might have restrained himself, unwilling to be laughed at, but right now he looked gravely up at Dean and promised, “That is the idea, yes.”

“Dumbass.” It was filled with affection, however, and Dean’s voice broke a little when Castiel reached forward to unbutton his trousers. He palmed the bulge of Dean’s cock through his boxers, taking a moment to feel the heat and hardness of it, to watch the way Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, their long lashes casting shadows down his cheeks. His mouth was half-open, as though some spell had frozen him still, waiting to be kissed, and he made a low, needy sound when Castiel curled a hand around his length and stroked him slowly through his underwear.

For a moment, Dean let him tease, draw it out. Sometimes, Castiel thought he could do this forever. Watching Dean, touching him, storing away every microsecond flash of pleasure and uncertainty and desire that crossed his face—surely that was at least as precious as physical release.

But Dean opened his eyes, then, their pupils wide with lust, their focus entirely on Castiel’s face. “C’mon, Cas,” he said, his fingers finding their way to the fastening of Castiel’s pants. “You’re way too dressed here.” If there was the hint of a plea in his voice, neither of them commented on it. Instead, Castiel finally reached inside Dean’s boxers and closed his fingers around Dean’s cock.

Dean was so warm. Castiel could feel his pulse right through the skin, and he began to move slowly, taking his time, swiping his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock and finding a bead of pre-come there. Dean let his head fall back, groaning low in his chest and saying, “ _Cas_ ,” like even he wasn’t sure if it was a demand or a plea.

Castiel didn’t stop. He kept up his ministrations, steady and teasing, watching the way Dean’s mouth fell open, listening to the quickening of Dean’s heartbeat through his ribcage and feeling it hot against his palm. And Dean went with it, at least for the moment, breathing out slow and giving himself over to Castiel’s touch.

It didn’t last forever. Eventually, Dean straightened up, his eyes focusing in on Castiel’s face as he found himself again. Castiel stilled, waited.

“Still too many pants here,” Dean said, a little breathlessly, and this time Castiel didn’t draw it out, just gave a wave of his hand. They were both naked, then, Dean still in his lap, cocks sliding together as they found a rhythm. The sensation, after so much waiting, made Castiel’s breath catch in his chest, the cool-warm tendrils of his grace uncurling themselves toward Dean beneath the skin.

He didn’t rush things. Dean needed to be here with him in the moment—and Castiel wanted that moment to last. Even in the dim light of the TV screen, the flush on Dean’s skin was visible, creeping up his chest and putting color on his cheeks. Castiel needed to feel the warmth of it under his hands, so he did, exploring with gentle touches, smiling at the surprised laugh he elicited when he trailed his fingertips up Dean’s side.

“So I’m not the only one who’s ticklish,” he pointed out, and Dean made a face. Then retaliated by reaching down between them and wrapping one capable hand around both their cocks. 

Castiel inhaled sharply, sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine, setting light to his grace from the inside. Still it strained toward Dean, and this time, he gave it free rein. 

The pale light of it built slowly, its filaments curling through the air and finding Dean’s bare skin. There was a charge to the connection—Dean had once described it as being like a shock of static, but pleasurable—and the moment it kicked in still took them both by surprise, Castiel gasping as it hit home, and Dean exhaling a startled, “Oh,” into his hairline.

It felt like light and rain and energy, like fire and comfort and the steady purr of the Impala’s engine. His grace, Dean’s soul, both of their bodies. This was something Castiel could never have enough of.

Dean pressed a kiss to his temple, quickening the pace of his strokes, and Castiel felt warmth build in his belly. Dean’s hands were rough from years of fighting, but his touch was gentle, practised. He took pride in this. Castiel had come to understand, after long years, why Dean had so often sought refuge in the arms of strangers before their relationship grew intimate. It required such care and responsiveness—a stark contrast to anything they did in their ordinary lives.

Castiel went with it, the heat building under his skin, his grace wrapping itself around Dean and holding him there. The connection hummed everywhere they touched, cold-warm against their skin. He found a steady rhythm, thrusting up into Dean’s fist, touching him everywhere he could. He let his eyes slip closed, losing himself in sensation—it was so _much_ —

And then Dean stopped. Castiel’s eyes flew open, and he felt a flicker of worry—but Dean was still gazing right at him, still smiling, his lips red from kissing and his cock standing up hard against his belly.

“Not that this ain’t awesome,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure you promised me there was gonna be fucking involved.”

Castiel dragged him down into another kiss, and when he pulled away, Dean grinned at him.

“I’m gonna go ahead and take that as a yes.”

There was lubricant in the bedroom, but right now, that was too far away. Rather than break the moment, Castiel summoned his concentration and a shred of grace, and then slid his hand gently back behind Dean’s balls, between his legs, and slid two slicked-up fingers into him.

Just a little way, but it was enough to make Dean moan and bite his lip. He was always a beautiful sight like this, lit up by the glow of Castiel’s grace, shivering at the tingle of it inside him. Castiel worked his fingers in deeper, little by little, captivated by the way bliss chased discomfort across Dean’s face, by his green eyes dark with need, the way his cock twitched eagerly against his stomach.

He took his time, opening Dean up slowly, watching him feel every touch, every twist of Castiel’s wrist and every crook of his fingers. By the time he decided he was done with waiting, Dean was trembling in his lap, making low, needy sounds that occasionally turned into Castiel’s name.

Castiel slid his fingers out carefully, and Dean blinked down at him—but he didn’t protest, just eyed Castiel’s cock in greedy anticipation and said, “It’s about damn time.”

The impatience was joking, the look in Dean’s eyes affectionate. Still, Castiel wasted no more time. He stroked himself firmly, using a pulse of grace to slick up his cock as Dean positioned himself, holding still there for a moment, the tip of Castiel’s cock at his entrance, teasing. 

“Dean.” It came out in a groan, his hands finding Dean’s hips and gripping him tightly, and Dean sank down onto him with a sigh of relief. 

Castiel’s grace flared bright, his heart thudding in his chest as he closed his eyes and just felt it, the heat and the tightness, the way he could feel Dean trembling from the inside. The white heat of Dean’s soul against the cool of his grace.

The stillness only lasted a moment. Then Dean was squirming in his lap, urging him, “C’mon, _move_ ,” lifting his hips to press himself back down onto Castiel’s cock. Castiel thrust back up to meet him, and Dean found his voice again: “Yeah, that’s—fuck, that’s good.”

He set a slow rhythm, inching in a little deeper with each rock of his hips. Dean flushed a little deeper, slammed himself down a little harder every time, and when Castiel was fully sheathed inside of him, he reached for his own cock and started to stroke himself steadily, his eyes slipping closed. 

_This_ was Dean fully in the moment, thinking of nothing but his pleasure—and this was beautiful.

With a growl of need, Castiel used his strength to flip their positions. On his back on the couch, Dean blinked up at him. His surprise faded quickly as Castiel pulled out and thrust into him again, a little rougher now, and he wrapped his legs around Castiel’s waist to draw him in deeper, jerking himself in time with Castiel’s thrusts.

No more slow heat, just need. Castiel gave up on taking his time and began to fuck Dean in earnest, his movements punching breathy gasps out of Dean’s throat. He paused only when Dean stilled underneath him, his eyes rolling back in his head. A second later, Dean’s cock jerked in his hand and his mouth worked as he came over his hand and his belly, his soul pulsing bright beneath the skin.

Castiel could wait no longer. He began to move again, hard and fast, and a moment later his own orgasm found him, hips stuttering as he spilled inside Dean’s body.

 

\----

 

Dean seemed easier, when he came back to himself. He grimaced at the drying puddle of come on his belly as he sat up, and jabbed a finger at Castiel. “You gotta go get me a towel. Seeing as this is all your fault.”

There was humor in his voice—but this time, it was not a barrier to anything. He stretched lazily on the couch as Castiel did as he was bid and went to fetch clean-up materials, closing his eyes and sinking back into the cushions.

Castiel returned with a damp cloth and a towel, plus one of the spare blankets from Dean’s bedroom. Gently, he wiped Dean off, then slid back onto the couch and spread the blanket over the both of them. Dean curled into his side right away—and, despite his new relaxation, one of his hands found Castiel’s and held onto tightly enough that, had Castiel been human, it might have hurt.

He knew better than to push the subject. But he allowed himself to turn it over in the privacy of his mind. 

He’d come close to losing Dean too often, lately. First to the Mark of Cain; then to his suicide mission against Amara. Castiel’s own helplessness had horrified him, and burying himself in some new mission had been instinctive.

Dean had come back from both, though. Dean had come back to him—but Dean was still afraid of being left alone.

No more, Castiel decided. Lucifer would have to surface soon, and when he did, they would go after him united or not at all.

Dean made a sleepy noise and curled his other arm around Castiel’s waist. “Man, you gotta stop thinking so loud,” he mumbled. “Keepin’ me awake.”

Castiel pressed a kiss to his temple. “My apologies.”

“Damn right,” Dean told him, and closed his eyes again.

That, of course, was when Castiel’s cell phone rang. Dean blinked and sat up, and Castiel reached for the cell. 

Sam. He answered the call and hit speakerphone. “Hello.”

“Hey, Cas. Dean isn’t picking up, so can you tell him I’m sorry for butt-dialing him earlier? Must’ve happened while I was driving, I guess.”

“Roger that,” Dean cut in. “Dumbass.” The relief in his eyes was visible, however. “How’s the hunt going?”

“It’s gone.” Sam snorted. “So, Eileen thought she was dealing with one kelpie, but it turned out there were three. Plus their real forms are covered in this green goo that smells like the dumpster out back of a seafood shack, and it’s a real bitch to get out of your hair.”

Dean’s face was a picture of disgust. Castiel frowned. “So it went badly?”

“What? No! We actually had a good time.” Sam paused. “And, uh. Eileen’s gonna come visit in a couple weeks’ time, if neither of us is busy.”

Dean grinned. “You sly dog.”

Sam didn’t need to be in the room for Castiel to imagine his expression. “Dude, knock it off. Anyway, so, uh… if you guys could maybe find a job or something, I’d really appreciate it.”

“What, scared your girl will figure out I’m the handsome brother?”

“ _Dean_.”

“Fine, fine. But you owe me one.”

“And Sam?” Castiel added, before he could end the call. “Please feel free to spend a few more days with Eileen before you return home.”

Sam laughed. “Got it.”

Castiel hung up and let his eyes close once more as Dean settled back into his embrace. Tomorrow, he decided, was going to be a good day.


End file.
